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Clay Pot and Chopsticks
Touch My Heart
Clay Pot and Chopsticks
Chapter One
Malaya 1958
It was six o’clock in the morning. The air
was cloaked in a mixture of sleep and body scent. Jen crept out of bed and
fumbled her way down the rickety stairs and into the kitchen. Standing on tiptoe
she ran her fingers along the top of the larder for a box of matches to light a
candle, but she wasn’t alone.
There were
spiders weaving intricate patterns across the larder to the windowsill.
Cockroaches scurried across the mud floor and disappeared into cracks in the
wall and holes in the floor. Rats the size of cats drank from the puddles dotted
around the water urn. They looked at Jen with disdain and carried on drinking. A
dog howled and barked in the distance. A cacophony of cock’-a-doodle-doo
followed in rapid succession.
Jen, quite
unperturbed, picked up the blackened kettle and sat it down by the urn. She
removed the heavy wooden lid with both hands. Plunging the jug into the cold
water sent a shiver down her skinny body. Jug by jug she filled the kettle.
Squatting by the clay stove she gathered a handful of wood shavings and placed
them on the slatted grid. Finely splintered firewood was carefully arranged over
the shavings before several large chunks of charcoal were positioned around
them. Jen struck another match and fed it to the kindling. She gently blew on it
as smoke started to rise. As the firewood caught alight and the smoke gave way
to sparks she stood up and stifled another yawn.
While the kettle
was boiling she headed for the back door. The rusty bolt and the heavy wooden
hinges creaked, squeaked and squealed like cornered pigs before springing open
like Jack-in-the-box. Jen stepped out into the cool clean air and walked towards
the bottom of the garden. In one corner sat a raised wooden shed that served as
a latrine. In the other corner, enclosed in a three feet high concrete wall was
a well.
Jen climbed the
couple of steps and stood on tiptoe to reach the catch. As she threw the door
open the whiff of human waste smacked her in the face. Instinctively she pinched
her nose and held her breath. Squatting awkwardly over the bucket she distracted
herself by pulling a couple of newspaper squares from a hook and crushed them in
her hands. It was the best way to soften them before cleaning herself with them.
She leapt out of
the latrine and let the door slam behind her, took a deep breath and walked over
to the well. She found a bucket with a sturdy rope tied to its handle. With one
hand she held on to the end of the rope, and with the other she threw the bucket
into the well. Jen looked down into the dark shimmering surface of the water and
was pleased to see the bucket cut the surface like a knife. The pull on the rope
informed her that the bucket was filling up. She hauled it to the surface, and
with a grunt and a tug she landed it on the ground beside her. As she half
carried and half dragged it indoors the cold water splashed over her feet making
her flinch.
Her morning wash
consisted of more splashing of cold water on her face and arms and rubbing down
with a small towel that the whole family shared. There was no toothpaste in the
tin, so she took a few grains of salt from the larder and rubbed them on her
teeth and gums. She then peered at her face in a small cracked mirror hanging on
the wall by the window. Screwing her eyes up and pulling faces was also part of
her morning ritual. It helped to put her face back together again after the wash
in cold water. Jen didn’t like her face too much but she was pleased that she
had no spots unlike some of her classmates. In a few months time she would be a
teenager, Jen wondered about her future.
The rising steam
from the boiling kettle interrupted her contemplation. She turned the fire down
by shutting off the air vent on the stove. Jan made the coffee and replenished
the two thermos flasks with boiling water. Next she threw another large lump of
charcoal into the stove to keep the embers going till lunchtime when her mother
will cook their main meal. She refilled the kettle and set it back on the stove
to catch the rising heat of the smouldering coals.
The dawning of a
new day threw shafts of hazy light onto the dappled and uneven mud floor. Jen
looked down at her feet; the wooden clogs were worn down to a thin plinth. The
pink plastic strips that held them to her feet had loosened allowing her toes to
poke through the edges. She must remember to ask her mother for a new pair for
her birthday she thought. On second thought she hoped to receive a new pair for
her thirteenth birthday. It wasn’t the done thing to ask for a present, not in
her family anyway.
It was time to
get her brothers Tam and Lee out of bed and ready for school. Jen sighed
heavily. She left her clogs on the bottom step and climbed the stairs bare feet
careful to avoid the wobbly treads and loose nails waiting to trap her callused
feet.
Chapter Seventeen
Left alone with her thoughts Lian shivered
and shook for several minutes. She drew her knees up to her chest and hugged
them tightly. Snapshots of her past swirled and whirled into her thoughts
unbidden and unchecked. She was too tired and sick to censor any ugly dramas
that past through her internal theatre. Her breathing became more hurried, but
she felt strangely peaceful. Slowly and quietly hot salty tears rolled down her
face. As the tears increased her breathing slowed and in a dreamlike state she
wiped her tears with the back of her hand like a child waiting for her mother to
rescue her.
There were no sound, just tears
and thoughts. She was sixteen again. Her mother had called her into her room to
speak with her. Old Mrs Tang was a wiry four-foot ten of nervous energy. She had
a slight stoop and tottered on her bound feet around the house like a caged
animal. Old Mr Tang, her father, was an elusive and silent figure, He only came
home once a week to give his wife housekeeping money to ease his conscience. The
rest of his life and time was spent with his second mistress. Lian’s parents had
been married for nearly forty years but for thirty of those years he had lived
with his mistresses. Lian had often wondered why her mother had her so late in
life and unusually for the times why was she the only child.
Lian stepped
into the dim interior of her mother’s room; Mrs Tang was sitting on edge of her
bed. The smell of liniment was coming at her from every wall.
‘Lian, sit
down,’ her mother waved her towards a chair by the bed. ‘I have something to
tell you. You are now sixteen and it’s time we found you a husband,’ Mrs Tang
said not looking Lian in the eye. ‘I’m getting old and -your father said he had
approached a match-maker…it’s been arranged for you to be married to Old Lau’s
youngest son.’
A shiver shot
through Lian. She remained silent, too stunned and afraid to speak. She tried to
catch her mother’s eyes but Mrs Tang was looking at her hands that were resting
on her lap, all wrinkled and engorged with veins treading an uneven path to her
fingers. ‘Mother,’ Lian finally found her voice, ‘you have not been well lately,
would it not be better for me to remain with you, to look after you. There’s
plenty of time to find me a husband…when you are better,’ Lian said with as much
conviction as she could muster.
‘Daughter, I
would like that if I could, but you father have made the arrangement. You
mustn’t let your father down,’ Old Mrs Tang said, her voice more timorous than
normal.
A sudden surge
of energy lifted Lian off the chair, ‘She faced her mother, NO! I will not do
it!’ she cried.
Old Mrs Tang
kept her head down. Her shoulders shuddered and she let out a long low groan
like a trapped animal, it went on for ages. Lian looked on in shock. The mother
she knew was a placid and timid woman not given to angry outbursts. She took a
step backwards and fell back into her chair. For a long while neither spoke, the
hush in the room threaten to engulf both of them.
‘I’m sorry
Mother,’ Lian said and slowly lowered herself down to the ground until she was
kneeling directly in front of her mother.
Old Mrs Tang
lifted her head slowly until their eyes met, ‘ Lian, I’m sorry it had to be this
way,’ a sob escaped from her pressed lips. ‘There are things that I should have
told you before…but I couldn’t,’ her sobbing had become more insistent and she
stopped to wipe her face on a handkerchief. ‘You see, I…I can’t have children…’
Lian thought her
mother was so upset by her defiance that she was talking gibberish. ‘Mother, you
don’t have to tell me anything, you are tired, take a rest and I’ll make you
some herb soup…’
‘No Lian! You
must listen to me, when I am dead you will never find out the truth. You are not
my daughter!’
Lian felt as if
her mother had slapped her a hundred times. Numbed to her bone she sat back on
her heels and put her hands out and covered her mothers’. ‘I…I…I… don’t
understand what you are telling me Mother!’ she stuttered, tears not far behind.
The old lady
seemed to have shrunk even further in those few moments; she withdrew her hands
from Lian’s clasp and wiped her eyes vigorously. After tucking her handkerchief
up her long sleeve she stood up and turned her back on Lian. With both hands she
gripped the headboard to stop herself toppling over on her three by two inch
bound feet. ‘You are the daughter of our father’s last mistress, she died soon
after giving birth to you; your father said I should bring you home to live with
me. I cannot have children, I have to accept that he must have a mistress to
bear his children,’ she sobbed quietly.
Lian was still
kneeling on the floor and felt safer to remain there; her foundation in life had
been severely shaken. The message her mother had just imparted sounded distant
and unreal. Soon she was crying quietly too, but unlike her mother she didn’t
have a handkerchief to wipe her nose. Now she understood why her father rarely
spoke to either of them, her mother for being barren and Lian for reminding him
that she was the cause of his mistress’s death.
‘Mother, can’t
you forbid him, he cannot marry me off like a pig to market,’ Lian pleaded.
‘I’ve tried. He
threatened to stop the money for our food. I have no money of my own.’ She
turned round to face Lian, ‘don’t knee there, I don’t deserve it, sit on the
chair,’ her voice broken and pitiful.
The heavy burden
of knowing that the woman whom she had called Mother all her life had asked you
not to kneel before her because she didn’t deserve it must be the ultimate
punishment for both of them. Lian got up and looked at her mother closely. Long
hair pulled back into a bun and pinned into the nape of her neck. Eyes heavily
lidded with hardly any sparkle in them. Wrinkles grooved her face and the
corners of her mouth were turned down in a permanent disappointment.
Lian was silent,
but she felt a rising rage threatening to explode. She was unsure how to comfort
her mother and soothe her own anger. With great effort she spoke to her mother
calmly, ‘Mother, you sit on the chair, I want to talk to you before it’s too
late.’ Lian held her elbows and steered her onto the chair. ‘Please tell me
everything.’
Old Mrs Tang
sniffed and let out a long deep sigh. ‘When I was sixteen your Father came back
to fetch me.’
‘Fetch you from
where?’ Lian interrupted.
‘We were both
brought up in a little village in Guangzhou. My father and his father were in
business together. He agreed that on my thirteenth birthday I would be betrothed
to his business partner’s youngest son. Your father is five years older than me.
When he was sixteen he left home, joined a boat and came to Singapore. He met a
man who gave him a job in his kitchen, but his boss died two years later owing a
lot of money to his enemies. They threatened to cut your father up and feed him
to the dogs, so he ran away to Malaya. He started his own restaurant with the
money he saved and when I turned sixteen he came back to China to make me his
wife.’ Mrs Tang paused as if in a trance.
‘And then what
happened?’ Lian asked.
‘What else could
I do but followed him here. I only had two changes of clothes and no money when
I left my parents house. I though I was lucky to be married to a man with a
restaurant, I would always have food to eat. But the Gods hadn’t endowed me with
the gift of children. I prayed everyday to have a son, but years passed and
nothing happened,’ the sadness in her voice was palpable.
Lian flinched
when her mother said that she prayed for a son. Another hundred slap to her
face. But she couldn’t be angry with her mother for she had been kind and had
taught her to sew, read and write what little she herself knew. ‘What…when did
father…how did he meet my birth mother?’
‘After ten years
and still no children, your father got impatient. He said he wanted a son to
inherit his name and fortune, that was what he said,’ she pulled her
handkerchief out and dapped at her eyes. ‘He met her at the restaurant, she was
helping in the kitchen.’
‘Did she give
him a son?’ Lian felt her anger thudding against her ribs. It wasn’t the kind of
question one asked one’s mother but being angry made her reckless.
Her mother
nodded. ‘Her first-born was a son. He was ten years old when you were born. She
was in poor health and didn’t want another child but to please your father she
had you.’
Lian shut her
eyes and imagined the horror of her mother dying soon after giving birth to her.
What was her name? What did she look like? She has a brother! Where is he now?
But to her
mother she asked, ‘have you ever met my birth mother?’
She nodded. ‘I
saw her lying in her bed, she was very sick, she was crying when she gave you to
me. You were tiny, I was so scared, you were screaming, screaming….’
‘What happened
to my bro…to her son?’
‘The second
mistress looked after him for sometime. I suppose he’s grown up now…I don’t know
where he is.’ The old lady eyes misted over again, she put both hands over her
face and pressed her fingers hard into the sockets of her eyes. Her distress
wrenched at Lian’s heart.
‘Mother, you are
tired, here, let me help, lie down and have a rest. I’ll get you a cup of tea.’
Lian had to get out of the room for some air. She stumbled into the kitchen and
stood holding on to the back of a chair. Her legs felt like jelly and her hands
shook when she poured the tea from the thermos flask into her mother’s cup.
Sadly that was
the last conversation Lian had with her mother. Old Mrs Tang died in her sleep
that night. Six months later Lian was married to Lau Chee Kuan. He was ten years
older than Lian, a kind and gentle man. For the first time Lian felt contented
if not happy. He was a carpenter and he single-handedly built the house that she
and her children still lived in. She never had any further contacts with her
father since her arranged marriage.
Chee Kuan was a
sickly man and nine years into his marriage to Lian he died. The doctor at the
hospital told her that he had tuberculosis, and it was at his funeral that she
learned that his mother had also died of the same illness.
Being a widow
with four young children was an impossible nightmare. Min was only six moths
old, and Jen the oldest was not quite eight. She remembered standing at his
graveside seeing his coffin being lowered into the hole in the ground, she lost
all sense of reasoning and she tried to jump in with him, but was held firmly
away by the strong arms of Mrs Ong.
The memories of
it all brought great big shuddering sobs. Years of sadness and frustration hit
her like sledgehammer and suddenly the room was reverberating with her
distressed howling. She howled and cried and howled and cried until the tears
had dried up and her throat was sore. Suddenly she remembered the lump in her
throat, she felt nervously for it with her hands, there was nothing there. She
took a few hard swallows but the lump seemed to have disappeared. Anxiously she
took a few sips of the water, whatever that was blocking her throat had
definitely gone away. Reassured, Lian dried her eyes and flopped down on her
pillow and fell into an exhausted sleep.
Jen, on hearing
her mother’s sobbing had crept up the stairs and stood outside the bedroom
listening and agonising. She was terrified but felt as if her feet were nailed
to the floorboards, unable to move away. In the end she just stayed there until
the room went quiet and then she panicked about what to do next. She pressed her
ears to the thin wall when she heard her mother’s hoarse breathing. Very quietly
she got down on all fours and crawled into the room, she stayed there for a
couple of minutes just to make sure that her mother was still breathing, then
she backed out of the room, ran down the stairs, out the back door and straight
up the lane to Mrs Ong’s home. |